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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24423157">Another Kind of Connection</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoolnessOfExistedness/pseuds/FoolnessOfExistedness'>FoolnessOfExistedness</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>AU, Friendship, Gen, Loss</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 07:01:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,455</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24423157</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoolnessOfExistedness/pseuds/FoolnessOfExistedness</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Melog imprinted not on Catra but on another sentient being who understands loss and isolation intimately?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Wrong Hordak (She-Ra) &amp; Melog (She-Ra)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>25</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Another Kind of Connection</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>My beta wants nothing to do with this and I want to cry. D:</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>One wanted to be left behind, left with the purple brother, for the purple brother was a single welcoming radiance, and the others were not; they were several, separate, and they triggered uncomfortability in one’s brain, which felt unpleasant as it felt deserved. One didn’t know if it was okay to feel in such a way but one felt it nonetheless, and- </p><p>
  <i>I don’t want to think about Krytis.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>I don’t want to think, full stop.</i>
</p><p>…</p><p>
  <i>Why would…</i>
</p><p>But they are here.</p><p>Here is the place where everything is so much more saturated than what one is used to, much more diverse and colourful than what one recognizes as acceptable; it is something that one got only glimpses into, once, back when one had been… <i>not</i> one. </p><p>Wondrous, in a way, and his chest is filled with so much of forbidden marvel; and, at the same time, harsh. Alien, unfriendly, push-you-down-the-throat silently judging kind. The prospect of harm, promising, jarring, tearing at what is already torn, odd, wrong, powerful, wondrous. </p><p>
  <i>We don’t talk about Krytis.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>I don’t want to feel anything about Krytis.</i>
</p><p>These brothers, they want in; they want to see what Krytis is, they want to seize what Krytis is for themselves, and one doesn’t want to go with them. One wants to be left with the purple brother, who is similar to one’s deep-seated part: something outside that resembles something inside, vibrating in assonance, lost and isolated but still lively; yes, he liked the purple brother the best of them all.</p><p>The notion of ‘like’ is familiar. </p><p>The notion of ‘want’, the experience of it—he still learns.</p><p>The wants of them are separate from the wants of one. One wants nothing to do with Krytis; when talks and thinks are about Krytis, one wants nothing to do at all; one wants nothing; one doesn’t; just leave one alone with the purple, just leave, please, let’s leave. </p><p>Let’s leave.</p><p>Let’s leave.</p><p>However, they don’t.</p><p>And they want one to go there with them.</p><p>To impart one's knowledge about this unplace.</p><p>One looks at the purple.</p><p>This brother looks at one, bright-eyed, and then back to the screen, busy and engrossed into what is currently being done.</p><p>So, one has no choice but to deepen into, with everyone else.</p><p>The doors open with a sound, welcoming-unwelcoming, enticing but prospectively horrible, and one shakes and one shakes and one shakes inside, jitters with unrecognizable, unfamiliar emotion, unacquainted with oneself, at least partly; oh, this place, one doesn’t want to remember, one doesn’t want to find respective images within oneself, the corresponding experiences too unwieldy to process, too difficult; that aversion reverberates through, and one <i>doesn’t</i>.</p><p>...and they are inside. </p><p>They are not mangled right away, they are not denied their existence, they proceed, they are able to proceed; is it so horrible still?</p><p>One observes one’s surroundings, which are moderately spacious, and gets accustomed to their colours. One’s fellow companions talk among themselves and act among themselves, their voices resonant and impregnated with various emotions one cannot even begin to decipher. Still, it alleviates one’s worries a bit, especially when no one is looking back. One has a new opportunity to look at them, to observe them, to find any thread of a connection.</p><p>...The picture draws itself in one’s head, so when one is lost, it feels like an epitome of unfairness; one has started to map things and their relations, one has started to map people and everything, and now nobody is around, except the innards of this unplace. One is alone-single-lonely entity in the depths of these forbidden walls, in search for the voices of one’s alien brothers, isolated once more, isolated still, separate, departed, fractioned—what else, how is it a way to exist, what, why, for what reason. One wants to cry, so one cries, wet liquid on one’s cheeks, one’s voice alone-lonely in Krytis, the cursed, unknown, unexisting place.</p><p>One is in the place which has damaged Horde Prime, the one most important, which has damaged them all. One is a fool to be here and to think that one can escape unharmed; one is much more defective than the Original Image, one is so wrong and would-be-lifeless, and how one can even, how one is able to, one is unable to breathe.</p><p>One wants to find others, so one goes through a tunnel, darkly existing around, solid, and goes through another, and wants, desperately wants to hear the voice of the purple brother, but one doesn’t have that type of connection, one doesn’t have any type of connection at all, not by voice, not any, so alone, so lost. One sinks on one’s knees as one sinks into incoherence, as one <i>thinks</i> incoherence. </p><p>
  <i>Please find me and take me and fill my head with something, feel my head with you.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>I can’t proceed like this.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>I can’t proceed.</i>
</p><p>And one sits there and thinks white noise, and whimpers for no one to listen, for no one to understand, for no one to react, these walls unmovable and persistent. </p><p>Then…</p><p>Then, <i>something</i> is <i>here</i>, as a response to one’s plea. </p><p>Its presence is…</p><p>Its presence just is. </p><p>One raises one’s head to look at the presence, and almost sees an entity, nested in the space around it, and one can’t designate it, so discarnate it is. </p><p>It emits an odd kind of power; the power of… <i>attention</i>, probably, or the power of intentions; it <i>watches</i>, intently, with its gaze mentally shining bright, and one can’t take one’s eyes off it, as if there’s something to see in the void space of the room. One is frozen in one’s place, hiccups of desperation still racking one’s body but subdued, and gives that attention back.</p><p>‘Apprehensive’ would be the right word. </p><p>It gets closer, and gradually gets visible—an unformed anthropomorphic figure darker than its backdrop, in possession of two vivid eyes. </p><p>One doesn’t feel any threat but one is scared nonetheless, scared of its perceived <i>difference</i>. The sense of dread displaces the thoughts of isolation and wrongness and loneliness, and it is a surprisingly welcome change.</p><p>The figure doesn’t try to consume; it just watches as one looks back, vulnerable on the floor, unable to protect oneself in any way and unable to cry for help (the only way to cry is to cry with tears, helplessly, mourning the completeness, surrendering to the new, laying bare what is inside—if anything even is).</p><p>Then it- it mourns back. </p><p>It is a sound and it isn’t; a vibration of psyche, a string of emotions translated into the reality around; it is soft, almost unlistenable but it is <i>there</i>.</p><p>This presence cries too.</p><p>Echoing.</p><p>Reflecting back.</p><p>A dull ache of loss, recognized and returned as a rhyme.</p><p>Like almost-nothingness that becomes somethingness, from nowhere.</p><p>A vestige of a uni-song, searching for footing, yearning for unison.</p><p>So they cry together, for everything that is no more.</p><p>For every empty space.</p><p>For every cold blank and every dead gap and every absence where an existence should be.</p><p>For the hours immortal, spent with only oneself as a company, so very insignificant in their own head, spare where it is used to be plenty.</p><p>Spared, for some unknowable reason, for better or for worse.</p><p>It is so unfair, to be spared. </p><p>So undeserved.</p><p>So they cry, for everything that has been lost,—and for each other.</p><p>They are a mess when they are found by Etherians. </p><p>There are shouts and exclamations, and various reactions, and Etherians don’t really believe that this unfamiliar old existence is harmless, or at least they don’t believe it outright.</p><p>Still, the acceptance is in store, even if it is not enrooted just yet.</p><p>They and one and it leave the ruins, leave the home, leave the place of isolation and desolation and warmth ensconced in its walls; they leave something important behind in search for something even more important, the yearn for less loss, less absence; saving and keeping close instead of having to let go and to be left.</p><p>No one wants to be left behind any more.</p><p>The purple brother screams welcome and shouts curiosity, and one wants to talk, to explain what has been found. Wants to explain <i>it</i>, no, to explain <i>them</i>.</p><p>One doesn’t, because one doesn’t know how to. </p><p>But one feels a single absence less and a single existence more. </p><p>A new connection emerges.</p><p>The second of the future plenty.</p><p>They both wish to reform.</p><p>They just need more information to do it.</p><p>It appears, the void is quite fillable.</p><p>And emptiness is not forever.</p><p>Even if, for one of them, for the most alien of them, it protracted for the longest time.</p>
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